


The Fire of Her Colours

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dress Up, F/F, Handmaidens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Míriel and her handmaidens, at two different moments in their lives.





	The Fire of Her Colours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



Úrvalyë and Tinwenícë entered The Big Room at the same time, though from different doors. Míriel lifted her gaze from the tapestry she was working on, frowning at the interruption, but her frown disappeared quickly as she gazed at her handmaidens, who were also her lovers, both tall and night-haired, though Úrvalyë was light-skinned and Tinwenícë dark as the earth itself. She motioned for Úrvalyë to speak first and resumed piercing the fabric back and forth with her long needle.

“The guests from Taniquetil are going to have a tea party in the gardens. They would be honoured if you graced them with your presence,” Úrvalyë said.

Míriel huffed and all but stabbed her needle into the fabric, eliciting a giggle and an amused glance from Nierwen and Vanessë, who were working on the other side of the tapestry-frame. “A tea party? Tell them I have no time for a stupid tea party. Attend in my place and bring them my most heartfelt apologies, of course. You don't have anything else to do this afternoon, right?” 

Úrvalyë shook her head, not at all surprised by Míriel's reaction, and turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Míriel sprang up from her seat. Rómelindë, who sat next to her, had to catch her needle in mid-air. Míriel scuttled over to Úrvalyë and assessed her figure. Úrvalyë wore a simple red gown decorated with geometric embroidery in contrasting colours, a type of dress that had been usually worn by keepers of the hearth-flame in Cuiviénen. Its significance would be lost on the Vanyar, and many of the Ñoldor had already forgotten the old rituals. Míriel wanted to make sure not all of them did, and she had plenty of ideas for dresses that would help with that. It was expected of her, as Queen, to look after her handmaidens. It was her pleasure too, since her handmaidens were all dear to her heart, both those who had been with her since Cuiviénen and those who had joined her in Valinor. 

“Rómelindë, take the new dress,” Míriel commanded. “Valyë, my dear, undress.”

Úrvalyë stole a kiss before starting to take her gown off, with help from Tinwenícë, while Míriel prattled on. “I wanted to finish the others too, so that we could all wear them together at the next feast or whatever other gathering Finwë comes up with, but this is a perfect occasion for you to try the dress on and show it off. No need for that.” She motioned for Úrvalyë to take her chemise off too, then reached behind her to undo the linen band covering her breasts. 

Úrvalyë caught Míriel's hands and kissed the back of them, in reverence and love. “Have you used those fabrics Sáyandil has been working on?” 

Míriel face dimpled with an arch, satisfied smile.

The dress Rómelindë handed Míriel was made of translucent black silk. Úrvalyë duly stooped forward and lifted her arms as Míriel slipped it over her head then stood still while Míriel adjusted it, arranging the cascade of scale-like appliqué in shades of orange and yellow that created a large flame, streaming down from her shoulders, over her chest and fanning out over her hips down to her knees. 

“Try moving,” Míriel said. Úrvalyë spun around once, and the scales came to life in the golden light pouring into room through the tall windows. The black of her hair contrasted sharply with the dress, making the effect of the flame even more striking.

Míriel clapped her hands together. “Yes, perfect! Just how I imagined you would look!” 

She took the bright yellow sash Rómelindë held out to her and lovingly tied it under Úrvalyë's breasts, indulging in touch while she smoothed creases.

An embroidered shawl in sunset colours and studded with glass beads completed the outfit, draped softly over Úrvalyë's shoulders and bare arms.

“Now you also look your name, my dear dear Úrvalyë.”

Míriel smiled triumphantly then stood on tiptoes to kiss her on the mouth, while Rómelindë and Tinwenícë twisted Úrvalyë's hair into two large braids at the front, leaving the rest to flow freely over her back. 

“Go and make us proud!”

Úrvalyë blew her a kiss and swept out of the room, filling it with tiny sparks.

“Ah, I think I will look my name too wearing that,” Tinwenícë said, winking at Úrvalyë as Úrvalyë closed the door behind her, her face already composed in a grave and stately expression, as befitted the envoy of the High Queen. 

Tinwenícë turned towards Míriel, covering her lower lip with her upper lip in a poor attempt to restrain a mischievous smile. 

“What?” Míriel asked, eyeing her warily.

“...I hope you never make a dress to look like Nierwen's name.”

That made both Nierwen and Vanessë laugh; even Rómelindë, who tended to be aloof, smiled. 

“If I do, it will be spectacular. Anyway, what did you come here for? I hope it wasn't just to bother me.”

Tinwenícë nodded with her head towards the desk, tucked in the least bright corner of the room. “The paper for the book-covers has been delivered.”

“Finally!”

Míriel flitted over to the desk, pointedly ignoring the large loom where Finwë was supposed to weave fabrics for her to embroider, as had been the custom for married couples in Cuiviénen. She inspected the paper, wrinkling her nose as her eyes fell on the blue of a wave-like pattern. 

“I did make it very clear that I'm not overly fond of blue, didn't I? Most of these are good though, now we just have to wait for Rúmil to return the corrected drafts to us.” Rúmil's invention of a set of symbols to trace out words and thoughts had piqued Míriel's interest, and she intended to incorporate it in her embroidery and use it to jot down ideas for projects, among a myriad other things.

“Shall I go see if he's done with them?”

“No, I have plenty to do as is,” Míriel said, turning towards the silent loom. “I will ask Sáyandil to come weave fabrics for my embroidery, if Finwë won't find the time to do it.” 

“What would the Valar say, a man who isn't your husband in your own private chambers!”

“Well, my capable handmaidens are all busy and all I'm left with is a lazy handmaiden, who cannot weave nor embroider.”

“But I am the best seamstress you will ever find! And I know your body better than anybody else. That's why you made me you named me 'Mistress of the Wardrobe'...your Majesty,” Tinwenícë protested, while her arms reached for Míriel's waist and wrapped around it

“More Mistress of the Bedsheets!” Vanessë quipped from the other end of the room. 

Míriel grinned up at Tinwenícë, making a half-hearted attempt to wiggle free of her hold. 

Tinwenícë faked outrage. “Where could you possibly find another seamstress who is also a smith and can make tools for you too, the finest needles and the smoothest hooks, bending metals with the very fire we so fervently cherish?”

“I'm sure I could find one here, one who learned from the Valar themselves,” Míriel taunted, pinching Tinwenícë's arm.

“Not one who cherishes the fire and you more than I,” Tinwenícë said, and captured Míriel's mouth in a kiss, savouring her smile along with the softness of her lips and the welcome slipperiness of her tongue.

*

“Rómë, don't make that face. I'm only pregnant. You should be happy!”

Try as she might, Rómelindë couldn't bring herself to smile. She walked around the bathtub, and knelt behind Míriel, who leant forward. She had been looking at Míriel's face throughout the feast, more attentively than she usually did, less focused on her beauty and grace and more on her expression. She had noticed how Míriel blanched when Finwë confidently boasted that this would be only their first child, the way her jaw clenched as the dinner dragged on. 

“Are you jealous?”

“...a little,” Rómelindë admitted, devotedly gliding her hands up and down Míriel's back. Jealousy was a normal thing for a lowborn lady-in-waiting in love with the King's wife, even if she was the chief Handmaid. But her jealousy had never been tinted with uneasiness before.

“I won't stop loving you, you know. And I expect you to help me with the pregnancy, and with the child.”

“Of course.”

Míriel leant back against the tub, and let herself slide down, until the water reached her chin, and closed her eyes. Rómelindë moved to the side of the tub and started lathering her chest. 

“I had a dream, a couple of days ago,” Míriel said softly, relaxing fully under Rómelindë's hands.“A huge flame sprouted forth from the middle of my chest, a mighty conflagration, the most beautiful I've ever seen. The flame grew and grew until it obliterated the darkness I stood in. I was enveloped by it, hidden in it, but not hurt.”

Rómelindë tensed as Míriel went on to describe the flame in greater detail. Míriel had inherited the flame, before joining Finwë on the Great Journey. It was what every village chieftain under Morwë had done for generations when the village moved to a different place. But this time it was different. Part of the village had stayed behind, the old hearth still existed, and they had moved to a place where keeping the hearth-flame was looked down upon as backward and useless, now that they could be in the Valar's very presence. 

Míriel re-opened her eyes.

“I think it means my child will be strong and talented, don't you think?”

Rómelindë nodded, though stiffly, torn between tempering Míriel's optimism and keeping her misgivings to herself. Úrvalyë would probably be able to discern the meaning of the dream better than her. Úrvalyë knew better than anyone else – fire was not something to be trifled with.

“Rómë, stop being gloomy! Undress and join me here.”

Rómëlindë obeyed, and Míriel crawled atop her in the bathtub, pressing on her until Rómëlindë could clearly feel the bulge of her womb. Míriel peppered her face with kisses, her chest rising and falling against her own, her nipples taut and squeezed against her breasts.

“What are you waiting for? Touch me,” Míriel whispered against the shell of her ear.

Rómëlindë wrapped her arms tight around her, and kept them there. “I love you, my Queen.”

Míriel drew back and stared into her eyes, surprised by the intensity of her voice, then gave her a broad, dazzling smile. “I love you too, never forget that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The meaning of the names:
> 
> Úrvalyë = fire + having (divine) authority or power  
> Rómelindë = East-song  
> Tinwenícë = Little Spark  
> Nierwen = Bee (but there's also a word 'nierwes', meaing beehive, so this name is something of a pun too)  
> Vanessë = Beauty
> 
> The title is a slightly altered Tolkien quote about Míriel (the original being "their colours").


End file.
